


Not Entirely Opposed

by rowofstars



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Sam Cassidy is the PR person for the Opposition instead of Stewart Pearson, and she and Malcolm really enjoy pushing each others' buttons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Entirely Opposed

**Author's Note:**

> Set during episode 5 of series 3, the night of the Radio 5 Live broadcast with Nicola Murray and Peter Mannion. This is a bit silly, yes. This is also my first fic in this fandom and for this pairing. Comments are love. A small amount of dialogue from the show was used at the end.
> 
> For Michelle.

They’re face to face in the hallway, breathing heavily, angrily even, and doing their best to glare each other to death. Things are out of hand now with both sides shooting themselves in the foot, in their donors feet, and soon to be in their own fucking heads. But they’ve agreed to contain the damage as best they can with a mutual press release, hanging their own useless people out to dry. It’s ugly, but necessary, and they will both always do what’s necessary to protect their parties, and themselves.

“What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?” Malcolm finally says.

Sam rolls her eyes. “I’d ask you the same thing, but judging by the fine job those fuck-ups in there did, it’d be quite rhetorical.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the wall outside the production booth for Radio 5 Live, smiling. “I’m sure you didn’t have anything better to do on your _birthday_ anyway.”

It may not be apparent from the way they interact publicly, but he really does like Sam. She’s good at her job, hell he’d tried to recruit her to work for him, and she’s more than aware that the people she works for are a bunch of pony shagging wankers (actually her words, not his). But they pay well, and money is a pretty fucking good motivator when you come from next to nothing. It’s something Malcolm can more than relate to, and he’s always been willing to forgive her choice of association because of it.

Well that and she’s fucking beautiful when she’s angry.

Malcolm smirks and steps closer to his Opposition counterpart. “If you must know I had just arrived home, and I was this close -” He holds up a hand right in front of her face, his thumb and index finger a meager distance apart, “- to having a gorgeous woman screaming my name.”

Her smile widens. “Oh really? That close, eh?” Glancing at his hand, she holds up hers as well, matching the spacing of his fingers with her own. “Or is that all the bigger your cock is, _old_ man?”

His face turns dark, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring briefly as he takes a breath. He pushes further into her personal space, and she’s forced to shift back and flatten herself against the wall. She shivers and presses her thighs together, knowing this is so not the place for this, but she’s also overstressed and a little beyond caring right now.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he says, low and quiet, gaze traveling over her face, neck, and down over the buttons of her blouse.

It’s overt and under any other circumstances he’d never consider such a display in a wide open hallway with too many people way to fucking close by, but they’ve been pushing each other’s buttons all evening. He wants to see if he can push a few more.

Sam licks her lips slowly, dragging her tongue against her teeth. She watches him swallow as her finger trails down his tie. “Oh I have lots of ideas.”

He leans in and his breath is hot over the shell of her ear. “Not here.”

He looks up and down the corridor before grabbing her hand and pulling her after him. She almost has to run to keep up with his long, quick strides, but then he’s pulling her into an empty conference room, with no windows thankfully. He shuts the door behind them and she hears the click of the lock, the flick of a light switch, and it seems so loud to her ears, everything does right now because _holy shit_ they are actually going to do this.

He grins at her, dark and little feral, and she moves back until she can feel the edge of the table against her arse. She can feel the heaviness in his stare as he follows after her, and then his mouth is opening over hers, catching her lips softer than she thought he would be. She makes a sound, a light little noise, and in the instant her mouth opens his tongue is there, pressing inside, slowly and thoroughly tasting her until she’s breathless.

Then he stops, searching her eyes, her face, for affirmation that this is what she wants, because he’s more than fucking ready for it, has been all night if he’s honest. She grins at him, then grabs the lapels of his jacket and pulls him back to her mouth.

The kiss turns bruising, their teeth catching on each other’s tongues, breaking only long enough to find a new, more perfect angle to devour one another. One of his hands is in her hair, the other is pulling her against him, letting her feel how quickly and rather obviously she’s affecting him. She sucks on his bottom lip, nips at it, and he growls from deep in his throat. He twists the fingers in her hair until it pulls and she gasps over his mouth.

He lets her go and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it on a chair, and then bends to pull up her skirt, bunching at her waist. He helps her hop up on the conference table, her hands squeak against the polished wood as she braces herself, legs falling open so he can stand between them. Then he’s kissing her again, palms skimming up her thighs, and she can feel the hard ridge of his erection and her hips push forward automatically to grind against him.

He breaks the kiss and leans over her, forcing her to arch her back which bares her neck to his eager mouth. His fingers make quick work of the buttons of her blouse, opening just enough to expose her pretty, lacy white bra. He cups her breast, brushing his thumb over her hardened nipple, feeling it against his palm through the thin fabric, and sets his teeth against her earlobe.

“Fuck, Malc,” she says, eyes fluttering closed.

He laughs, and she can feel his smile against her skin. “That was the plan.”

The hand leaves her breast and two fingers slip under her the edge of her knickers, pushing into her and meeting with no resistance, only the slick heat of her arousal. She moans and grabs at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers, barely fumbling with undoing his belt and zipper while his fingers pump in and out of her.

It’s dim in the room, with only one bank of lights on, but it’s more than enough for him to see how fucking gorgeous she looks with her mouth gasping open, head tipped back, lace clad breasts taunting him.

“Jesus, Sam,” he whispers, wishing he had a lot more time to spend lavishing every inch of her with the attention she deserves.

She wraps her legs around him, pulls him into the shelter of her hips, urging him to just get on with it.

“Fuck me.”

It’s all he needs to hear, shoving his trousers and pants down, taking himself in hand as he watches her wriggle out of her underwear. The moan that leaves her throat when he’s finally inside her is fucking perfect, and he groans into the side of her neck, holding himself there for a moment to reign in whatever control he’s got left. She leans back, hands braced behind her, and it lets him tilt her hips up just right to slide in just a little deeper before he starts to move.

He tries to resist the urge to just pound into her, to take out every frustration from this whole stupid evening on her willing body; his fucking birthday, fucking useless ministers, that fucking twat Richard Bacon. But she tightens around him, digs a heel into his arse to pull him into her more forcefully, and that’s it then. He picks up the pace until she’s biting her lip to keep from crying out, and looks down, watches his cock slide in and out of her. He knows he’s not going to last, so he slips a hand between them, pressing his fingers against her clit, sticky and slick.

She’s panting and rolling her hips against him, trying not to fucking scream as she comes hard, and he doesn’t stop, just keeps fucking her right through her orgasm until there’s tears at the corners of her eyes and her jaw gapes open. He holds out as long as he can, drags out her pleasure until he spills inside her, slumping forward and groaning right next to her ear.

They’re a fucking mess, and even as they try to put themselves back together, it’s obvious from the wrinkles in his shirt, the creases on the front of her skirt, what they’ve been doing. She looks up at him, her eyelids still a little heavy, and smiles.

“Happy Birthday, Malcolm.”

He wags a finger at her. “Don’t you start. And don’t fucking call me old again.”

“Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes and buttoning up her blouse. “I suppose you didn’t like the present I had delivered either.”

He finishes pulling on his jacket and frowns. “What?”

“The cake?”

His eyes go wide. “That was you?!”

She shushes him, and eases open the conference room door, checking the hallway before she steps out. “Of course it was. You didn’t really think the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would sent you a _cunt_ cake, did you?”

She collects their coats from the waiting room, and he holds hers so she can shrug into it.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Fuck me. You’re fucking mental, lass.”

It’s her turn to laugh, and she dares to loop her arm through his as they make their way through the building and out to the pavement.

There’s a car waiting for Nicola, which Malcolm of course commandeers for himself. “So we’re agreed then?” he asks.

Sam nods. “We can just seal this in. Contain the toxicity. Chernobyl FM.”

“Right. You know if we keep carrying on like this, I might not find you utterly fucking contemptible,” he says with a wink.

“Oh, there’s incentive.”

He ignores her sarcasm and opens the door to the van, ready to climb in, but she puts a hand on his chest to turn him back to her.

“So,” she says quietly. “This gorgeous woman you were going to make scream your name?”

He grins and brushes his knuckles against the edge of her jaw. “Well if she had fucking told me where she was going before she ran off, on my _birthday_ -”

She laughs, cutting him off. “What fun would that have been?”

He glares briefly, then takes her hand and tugs her into the van with him. “We could have fucking handled this from my place, you know. From my fucking bed even.”

“And given up the chance to shag at the BBC?” She grins and looks up at him, leaning against his shoulder.

He shakes his head. “Fucking mental.”


End file.
